


tik-tok on the clock

by pumpkinless



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, FBI Agent Shiro, Keith has an iPhone 5, Lance is a tiktok e-boy wannabe, M/M, Mechanic Keith (Voltron), Romantic Comedy, TikTok, Vintage Cars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21602422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinless/pseuds/pumpkinless
Summary: Lance dares Keith to get a hobby or meet a man, so Keith meets the man of his dreams.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 433





	tik-tok on the clock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosmicbees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicbees/gifts).



> ldkfjslj this was so much fun
> 
> I was watching a lot of criminal minds while I wrote this?? so that's where the vintage car/FBI agent thing came from and I'm not sorry bc Shiro in a suit is peak sexy

An ideal Friday night for Keith isn’t out at a bar. Unlike his friends, he works most Saturdays at the garage, and he never gets home as early as he swears he’s going to. Work will be hell in the morning, but it’s hard to resist the allure of his favorite greasy mozzarella sticks. Plus, it's nice to see his friends, even when Lance is too busy on his phone to do more than throw elbows while Keith tries to show off his latest restoration project that's waiting for him at the garage.

“This is the car,” Keith says, edging further away from Lance while he flips through the pictures on his phone for Pidge and Hunk's benefit. “She’s a wreck right now, but this client’s got, like, an insane amount of money.”

“What’s it supposed to look like?” Pidge asks, squinting. 

Keith flicks to the next picture: a beautiful, shining 1965 Shelby Mustang, canopy down and blue stripes striking against the white body. She’s a racecar through and through, built like a dream, and Keith cannot believe someone wants to hire him— _ him!— _ to take on a project like this. Right now, the car is a rust bucket with an engine that rarely starts, but Keith is going to make her purr. The owner brings her in at ten in the morning, sharp.

“There were only five hundred and sixty-two of them ever made,” Keith sighs. He feels like a high schooler with a crush, but how can he  _ not _ have a crush on a car like this?

Pidge and Hunk coo the appropriate amount over the car: they’re engineers of a different kind than Keith, but they have an appreciation for good work and vintage charm. Keith approaches car restoration like the art it is, but he’s only recently started branching out to contract with car enthusiasts to hunt down rare parts and do the actual labor for them. This is the biggest project he’s ever gotten  _ and  _ the rarest car he’s ever been blessed to work on. Just thinking about it makes him want to shout with joy.

Lance, however, does not understand, nor does he care to. “Oh my god, okay, I quit, I can’t do this anymore,” Lance says loudly. He slaps both his palms down on the table. “Keith, buddy, it is Friday night. We have alcohol and like a million french fries,  _ please for the love of god  _ stop talking about work.”

“Hey, I’m not—”

“You totally are, dude, oh my god.”

Outraged, Keith turns to find support but meets more resistance. Pidge shrugs and Hunk offers, “I love hearing about it! But, y’know, I mean, it’s still work. Uh. Sorry, Keith.”

“I like my work,” Keith grumbles. That’s not a great argument though because he’s sitting at a table full of people who very much enjoy their jobs.

“I’m grabbing another round for all of us,” Pidge says. “I think it’s going to help.”

Hunk follows them out of the booth muttering about needing more dipping sauces and Keith tries not to feel betrayed. It’s not every day someone calls the garage because a friend recommended his restoration experience and oh, by the way, it’s one of Keith’s dream cars. That sort of thing happens basically never. 

“What you need,” Lance announces, “is a hobby.”

“I have hobbies,” Keith argues.

“No, what you have is a dog and a job you spend all your time thinking about.” Lance scoffs it like there’s something bad about that, but Keith doesn’t have a problem with leading a steady, focused life. Just because Lance uses Facebook like it’s a religion and updates his Instagram hourly and spends every second of his free time editing videos he calls  _ tick tocks  _ doesn’t mean that Keith needs to pretend he enjoys using social media. Or that he needs social media to be happy. “You could make videos!” Lance says. It's like he doesn't know Keith at all. "You could do something like this—like—” Lance fumbles with his phone, pulling up an app and shoving a video in Keith’s face and a headphone in his ear.

Keith only watches the video because he knows from experience that it's the only way to get Lance to leave him alone. Obnoxious music blasts out of the headphone as Keith watches  [ a woman in a long black skirt strut up to the camera, turn, and drop ](https://vm.tiktok.com/u9UeWy/) . He gets the sense he’s supposed to follow her ass on the way up, but mostly Keith is just confused—what’s the point of this again? Nothing actually  _ happens _ in the video and that does not a hobby make.

“See?” Lance demands. “That’s you.”

It is most certainly not Keith. “Uh. I’m not attracted to women.”

“No, it’s  _ you.  _ Because you’re a Scorpio. See?” He points emphatically at the caption which does say  _ Scorpio vs. All other signs,  _ but Keith disagrees with that assessment. He’s never squatted in a dress in his life.

Then Lance shows him a video of a dog, which is at least tolerable. Keith likes dogs.

“I have forty-two followers,” Lance brags.

Keith glances at the number of likes on the dog video: over a million and counting. He looks back at Lance. “That’s it?”

“Shut up, you have an iPhone 5.” No matter how many times Lance tries to use that as an insult, Keith still doesn’t care—his phone does all the things he needs it to do and is pretty durable for working in the garage. He stands by it. “Wait, can you even download TikTok? Give me your phone.”

“No,” Keith says.

He continues refusing to give Lance his phone until the others get back, at which point another round of drinks flows freely enough that Keith loses track of his phone. He lets Hunk enthusiastically tell him about a new frosting recipe and nods sagely like he knows what creaming together butter and sugar is. He’s totally up on his baking terms, just like he’s totally fuzzy in the head from alcohol. 

“This is a miracle,” Lance says. He has Keith’s phone and the app store open. “You don’t have a lock on your phone  _ and  _ it takes six years to download anything.”

“Don’t run down my data,” Keith complains.

Lance pauses. His head swivels to face Keith like he’s a doll in a horror movie. “You don’t have unlimited data? Keith, what the  _ hell,  _ it’s 2019!”

“I don’t have unlimited data either,” Hunk says congenially.

Lance’s next glare of betrayal goes to Hunk, but thankfully he quiets down and returns to the death grip he has on Keith’s poor phone. There’s no stopping him now: he stares at the progress bar until TikTok is downloaded and installed, and then he opens it up and makes Keith an account. It has the same username as the Instagram account Lance made for him two years ago. The consistency is nice.

Keith suffers through watching three more awful videos while Hunk and Pidge get to chat about how much they both want to take a vacation from work. That would be infinitely better than watching someone glue a fake camera onto the back of their iPhone X so it looks like an iPhone 11. He is so tired.

“Lance, these are all so stupid,” Keith says, grappling unsuccessfully to gain control of his phone.  _ His  _ phone. “I don’t want to—”

“No, c’mon, one more,” Lance begs. “The app just needs to learn what you like!”

“I don’t want it to learn anything about me,” Keith says. 

“Here, here, try this one.”

[ ‘This one’ is a close-up of someone’s face and claims to have three ways to introduce yourself to “get a man.”  ](https://vm.tiktok.com/u2Atk7/) Keith’s confusion only grows as he listens. Is this a joke? 

“Option number three,” the video says. “You’re gonna go up from behind, you’re gonna slap his ass, slap it firm. And then, when he goes into talk, put your finger on his lips and say, ‘Shh. Howdy, brother.’”

“What the fuck,” Keith whispers. This isn’t entertainment—this is the hell zone. There’s no way anyone actually watches these for fun and enjoys them. 

“Hey, maybe you can use one of these and finally get a date,” Lance says, laughing. He finally relinquishes Keith’s phone, but not before pressing  _ like  _ on the video. “It’s been five months since you went out with that guy, the, um—”

“Four months,” Pidge says.

“Kinkade,” Hunk supplies.

“The camera guy!” Lance slaps the table with excitement. “What happened to him? I liked him.”

Keith hunches in on himself and shoves his phone deep into the front pocket of his jeans on the side furthest from Lance, who never actually met Kinkade. The only time he ever hates his friends is when they pile onto him like this: Ryan Kinkade was a perfectly nice man who Keith enjoyed a handful of dinner dates with. And the only reason Keith isn’t still seeing him is that he’s currently somewhere in Malaysia filming a documentary series about birds and neither of them is interested in that kind of long-distance. 

He told Lance that. He told  _ all of them _ about that. 

“Even if I  _ was  _ looking to get a date,” Keith says with extra emphasis, “all of that was stupid.”

“It was not stu—”

“It was stupid.”

“Um, I heard about this new dating app,” Hunk says. “It’s for, like, busy professionals, I think?”

_ Dating apps.  _ God, does Keith’s phone look like it can handle downloading more apps than his bubble breaker game? He turns to Pidge, hoping for some kind of solidarity, but is only met with utter nonchalance.

“Don’t look at me,” Pidge says, unconcerned and downing the last of their drink. “I exist beyond the human understanding of gender, sexuality,  _ and _ dating.”

Keith rolls his eyes. They say that every time, and yet still love to badger Keith about his own love life. His perfectly non-existent love life that needs no man because Keith is satisfied with his home, job, dog, and friends and he really just isn’t interested in getting dinner with strangers right now. What’s wrong with that?

“What if I dared you?” Lance says. He leans right into Keith’s space and stares at him with narrowed eyes. “I dare you to go up to a man and slap his ass. Right now.”

“Lance, that’s called assault,” Keith tells him. 

“Coward. That guy at the bar’s been staring at you all night, he’d let you slap his ass. I  _ dare you.” _

“What—”

Caught off guard, Keith glances back at the bar. As expected, the seats are full of a variety of people alone or in chatting in small groups; there’s no one staring at him wistfully from across the room. Not that Keith wishes there was.

Just then, a man sitting on the side of the bar turns. His gaze goes right to Keith and their eyes meet.

Any emotional response Keith has to that look is just the alcohol in his system playing games with his head and pure physical attraction because the man is—well, he’s pretty hot, from what Keith can tell. He looks like an office worker: white button-up shirt and dark-colored tie, the starched collar emphasizing the strong cut of his jaw. He lifts his glass to his mouth and reveals sleeves pushed back up to his elbows.

It’s a bummer Lance was the one to point him out. Keith would probably admit he’s handsome otherwise.

“Whatever,” Keith mutters, turning his head away. 

“A hundred dollars,” Lance says. “If you can slap his ass and get his number. I dare you.”

Keith closes his eyes. Oh, he hates himself for what he’s about to do. 

“Fine,” he says. Fine.

***

Keith plops into an empty seat right next to his target. He takes a deep breath and tries to steel himself for this: Keith doesn’t actually approach men, ever. He’s not talkative or social with complete strangers and he does just fine letting others take the lead for him.

He puts on his best customer service attitude. It mostly saves him from getting in trouble with his boss every other month.

“So, my friend over there,” Keith starts, his body turned in toward the hot man even though he doesn’t quite look him in the eye, “dared me to come over here. He said he’ll give me a hundred dollars if I get your number.”

A pause. Then the man laughs, rich and warm, and he leans in with his elbow on the bar so that Keith can’t avoid his gaze without going out of his way to turn away. His eyes are dark and arresting under a strong brow and a sleek cut of salt-and-pepper hair; his shoulders are broad and his arms fill out the sleeves of his shirt  _ very  _ well. Keith feels his face grow hot.

“Your friend dare you to do a lot of things?” the man asks. He sounds amused enough that Keith’s shoulders relax.

“Yes,” he answers honestly. “Also, can I slap your ass?”

The man’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. 

“It’s part of the bet,” Keith adds hastily. God, he’s bad at this, but he’s never actually lost to one of Lance’s dares and if he fails this one, the gloating will be endless.

The man holds his gaze for a long moment as Keith prepares to be told to fuck the hell off.

That doesn’t come.

“My name is Shiro,” the man says. He holds out his gleaming metal hand like they’re normal people meeting for the first time and Keith didn’t just ask to slap his ass. 

Keith shakes his hand firmly. “I’m Keith,” he says. 

The handshake lingers for a long moment while Shiro sizes him up, his expression inscrutable. Keith lets him look: Keith’s superiority over Lance is in his hands, and while he  _ doesn’t  _ care about dating or TikTok, he does care deeply about maintaining his winning streak. Also, he wants to cheat Lance out of $100.

“I’ll make you another deal,” Shiro says. “Let me buy you a drink and you get everything you need to win your bet.”

Keith licks his lips. His eyes flick over Shiro one more time, but he doesn’t fool himself into thinking he wants to reject this offer. As nice as the money is, he can’t deny that he wants to know more about this man he’s found himself in front of: he’s beautiful and just a little bit mysterious. Keith is . . . interested.

“Alright,” Keith says. “Deal.”

“Great. Now get to it.” Shiro grins with all his teeth, flashing irresistible dimples to Keith’s poor gay heart.

They stand and Keith desperately tries to remember if he’s ever slapped someone’s ass before. He doesn’t think so. Does he even know how? Not that it’s, like, difficult, but he also doesn’t want to be weird about it. Shiro’s being nice enough letting him do this—the last thing Keith wants to do is accidentally insult him by slapping his ass wrong. 

He does not get any more time to think about it.

Keith turns to look at his friends. They’re all staring at him with varying degrees of manic excitement. Alright, then. He has an audience.

Slapping Shiro’s ass is an experience unto its own. He mentally digs his heels in and just goes for it, landing a full-handed slap right over the seat of Shiro’s dress pants. Keith swallows. He is no expert, but that feels like a nice ass.

Shiro’s grin hasn’t died down at all, but he opens his mouth to start speaking. He gets the first syllable out before Keith remembers the second part of what he has to do: he sweeps in before Shiro can get any further and presses his finger to Shiro’s lips. Something inside him dies.

“Howdy, brother,” Keith whispers.

Shiro’s eyebrows fly up. “Howdy to you, too,” he says, clearly laughing at Keith. “Does that mean you win your bet?”

Keith’s heart is beating so fast. “You haven’t—um, I need your number.”

“Of course.” 

Keith realizes too late his finger is still mushed up against Shiro’s mouth and he drops it hastily while Shiro turns around to dig in the pocket of his suit jacket which is thrown over his chair. He fishes a business card and a pen out of his wallet and jots a number down on the back of it before handing it to Keith.

“That’s my personal cell,” he says. “Call me any time.”

Keith is a little in awe. He’s never dated anyone with their own business card before: he flips it over out of curiosity and his mouth drops open.

_ Supervisory Special Agent Takashi Shirogane _ _  
_ _ Federal Bureau of Investigations _

“Oh,” Keith says weakly.

Shiro’s hand curls over Keith’s wrist. “What can I buy you to drink?” he asks.

Oh, Keith is in trouble.

***

Shiro flags down the bartender to order a rum and coke and a glass of whiskey while Keith sends Lance a Venmo request for $100. Venmo is another app Lance forced him to download, but he has to admit that this one has been  _ quite _ lucrative, so Keith doesn’t complain about it. He feels very smug about it right now, actually.

And then he talks to Shiro.

They talk and talk until Keith has to order an extra glass of water because his mouth is dry from speaking so much—he can’t remember the last time he had such a long conversation with a stranger just because he wanted to. He also can’t remember the last time he let a man put a hand on his knee and move it progressively higher as the minutes passed. Shiro’s attention is strangely electrifying and Keith can’t tear his gaze away, caught up in the sound of his voice and the tilt of his head.

Something strange is happening. Keith doesn’t want this night to end and he doesn’t just want to throw Shiro’s number away as soon as he gets home. 

Lance gets no credit, though. Keith did this one on his own, even if he doesn’t know how. It’s hard to believe he’s holding an FBI agent’s undivided attention at his favorite bar after asking to slap his ass and get his number for a bet, but Keith is pretty happy about how this turned out. 

Shiro’s fingertips graze the inseam of Keith’s jeans. Keith wants him bad.

He drops a hand to rest heavy on Shiro’s, pressing it down when Shiro startles and tries to take his hand back. Keith slides his fingers into the spaces between Shiro’s, a mimicry of a handhold. Shiro’s gaze goes dark.

“My apartment’s not far,” Shiro says softly. “A ten minute walk.”

“Yeah,” Keith breathes. “We should—we should go there.”

Then Shiro lifts Keith’s hand to his lips and ghosts a kiss across his knuckles. He does it casually, like Keith isn’t just some man he met in a bar who’s going home with him.

“I’ll settle the tab,” Shiro says.

“Okay. Um, my coat is with my friends—I’ll grab it and meet you out front?” 

“Sounds perfect.”

They share one last long, lingering look that Keith doesn’t know how to decipher. He can barely tear himself away from Shiro but it needs to be done.

He squeezes Shiro’s hand before he slips away.

Keith is so gone on him.

Practically floating across the room to where his friends are sitting, Keith doesn’t think it’s the alcohol: he can’t remember the last time he had such an instant connection with someone. He doesn’t know how the hell he talked himself into Shiro’s good graces when talking is anything but Keith’s strong suit, but he’s more interested in dwelling on the fact that he’s probably about to sleep with a man whose biceps are as big as Keith’s head. There are only winners here.

Lance, of course, wants to take credit.

“I was  _ right,  _ bitch!” Lance crows. He makes grabby hands at Keith’s face that are easy to dodge. “TikTok wins!”

“Sorry,  _ what _ did you win?” Keith scoffs. He snatches his leather jacket off the seat next to Lance and pulls it over his shoulders, snapping the lapels into place. “You’re out a hundred dollars and I’m about to have sex with an FBI agent.”  _ Bitch, _ he doesn’t say.

Pidge chokes on their beer with laughter.

Keith bids them a far too hearty goodnight while Lance splutters in indignation, but there’s no coming back from a self-burn like this. 

When Shiro walks out of the bar and slides right up into Keith’s space, there’s not a word exchanged between the two of them as they begin to walk down the street. Shiro takes Keith’s hand. His palm is big and warm, and it fills Keith with excitement—so much excitement that he can’t resist whirling Shiro around, pressing him against the brick wall beside them and lifting up onto his tiptoes to kiss him. For some reason, he only notices now how tall Shiro is—he’s got to be at least six foot three, maybe six foot four, if Keith is feeling nasty.

Keith forgets all about bets and dares and triumphant payouts. Shiro’s strong arms wrap around his body and he kisses Keith back with a fierceness that belies how recently they met. 

***

Keith gets fucked. He gets fucked very,  _ very  _ thoroughly, and the first round, he asks Shiro to keep the suit on; the second round, he rides a naked Shiro and feels up every single muscle that exists above the cut lines of his hips; the third round, he picks Shiro up and fucks him against the wall next to his ensuite bathroom because they never quite make it into the shower, despite their best intentions.

Their energy doesn’t survive past the third round, but Keith thinks it’s a respectable showing, considering how late it is. He passes out naked with Shiro’s face smushed into his chest right between his pecs.

Incredible.

Keith wakes up very sore when his phone alarm goes off at eight in the morning, like usual. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and his heart stops at the exact same moment his alarm abruptly cuts out.

Oh, shit, Keith has to work today.

He’s lucky that Shiro moved mostly off of him during the night and all Keith has to do to get out of bed is carefully move one hand off his belly. He slithers from the bed and over to where he left his pants on the floor last night to dig his phone out of the back pocket: it’s completely dead and Keith has his first meeting with the most important client he’s ever booked in just two hours. That’s two hours to sprint to the bar, get in his car, drive home, feed his dog, shower, make himself presentable, get to the garage, and calm himself down enough to be able to get through the first in-person consultation.

Okay. Okay, Keith can totally do all of that. He is strong and determined and he will not let the sight of Shiro’s round ass sloping underneath the covers stop him from carrying out his plan.

He has to physically turn his head away.

Keith feels guilty for just a moment as he pulls his boots on next to the door. Leaving after a one night stand--kinda rude, right? But he has Shiro’s number tucked into the pocket of his leather jacket and absolutely no intention of ghosting him; he’s sure that Shiro will understand once he explains. Last night he was so open and engaged with everything Keith had to say, and at no point did any of it feel fake or put on just so he could get Keith into his bed.

Pushing down his guilt, Keith carefully locks the front door of Shiro’s townhouse behind him. He’ll deal with all of this later.

He jogs back to his car and speeds through his morning routine. Kosmo is overjoyed to see him and very much appreciates his newly filled food bowl, even though the time is literally only fifteen minutes past when Keith normally gives him breakfast. He kisses Kosmo on the forehead on the way out the door for good luck.

By some stroke of a miracle, Keith makes it to work just nineteen minutes late for his shift, which is forty-one minutes before his scheduled meeting. Kolivan just nods at him from the office on his way in, unconcerned because it’s a Saturday and because his heart is far softer than he would ever let on. If Keith comes in hungover and a few minutes late every once in a while, well. He’s bringing high-rolling clients to the garage. And he’s also half the staff’s nephew, so that does a lot for their leniency.

He spends his time until the meeting gathering his thoughts in the back corner of the garage in the employee break room. He pours over the tentative budget he put together and rechecks his checklist of everything he needs to examine on the Mustang before he finalizes a project proposal.

_ Remember,  _ Keith tells himself.  _ This is just the first consult. I can’t know everything until I see the car. _

That does not stop Keith’s heart from pounding hard when Thace pokes his head in the door to tell Keith his car just rolled in.

Keith looks down at himself. His coveralls are as clean as coveralls can be, and his just-washed hair has air-dried into something presentable. For once, there’s no grease or grime underneath his nails, and he thinks all the sex has actually given him a healthy glow and a slight smile at the corners of his lips.

Here goes nothing.

Keith strides confidently through the garage to the main office, binder of papers to discuss tucked firmly under his arm. He is an accomplished professional who has been perfecting his trade since he was fourteen years old, and he is absolutely qualified for this job.

All his surety freezes when he opens the door to the office and sees a very familiar face.

“Shiro?” he asks.

“Keith?”

They stare at each other, equally open-mouthed, and Keith tries his best not to combust. This isn’t the end of the world, but it sure feels like it should be because Shiro is here and Keith can see  _ quite  _ clearly a hickey on the side of Shiro’s neck. Keith put that there.

Kolivan clears his throat loudly and Keith jumps. Right, Kolivan mans the front desk on Saturdays, which means he’s already spoken to Shiro and is watching all of this.

“Um,” Keith says. He licks his lips and straightens his back. Look, he can still do this--he’s still an accomplished professional, regardless of whether or not he knows what his client’s dick feels like down his throat. “Great to meet you, uh, sir. If you’ll just follow me . . . .”

Keith makes a beeline for the conference room at the back of the office. He doesn’t make any of the small talk he prepared himself for.

Shiro is kind about it. He follows Keith silently and lets the door close behind them before he speaks.

_ “You’re  _ Keith Kogane?” Shiro asks quietly.

“Yeah.” Keith squirms under Shiro’s heavy gaze and the weight of his own embarrassment. “Sorry, um. Maybe we should sit down?”

Shiro inclines his head and they take seats on opposite sides of the conference table. Keith sets his binder down and opens it, body moving on autopilot as he shuffles papers and starts laying out the relevant ones that Shiro will want to look at. The bulk of the binder has leads on parts that Keith will chase down later once he has a solid list of what he needs. He learned his project management skills from his mom.

Keith almost has it together until he looks up and meets Shiro’s eyes.

“I was going to call you,” he blurts out in panic. “I have--I put the card with your number on my fridge at home. I only left ‘cause I was late for work and I had to feed my dog, I  _ swear.” _

“Okay,” Shiro says slowly.

“Not that—” Keith cuts himself off, feeling stupid. That wasn’t the excited reaction he was hoping for. “I just, uh, really enjoyed talking with you. Last night. But I was so nervous about this meeting because it’s the biggest thing that’s ever happened to my career and—”

“Keith.” Keith snaps his mouth shut. Shiro’s eyes feel kinder than they did a moment ago.

“I’m really sorry,” Keith says when the silence goes on for too long.

Shiro releases a heavy sigh and his gaze drops to the tabletop. “It’s alright, Keith.” He shakes his head at himself. “I mean, I--I figured it was something like that? But you didn’t leave a note or text to tell me and I just—”

“My phone died,” Keith says. He doesn’t feel bad at interrupting. “Literally in the middle of my alarm going off. I really planned on calling you after work today.”

The corner of Shiro’s mouth twitches. “That soon? Really?”

If one day is too soon to call the hottest and nicest man Keith has ever met, he’s alright with that. He makes that clear to Shiro and then says, “I know this is weird because you’re basically here to hire me, but. I’m gonna ask you out when I call you tonight.”

He stares Shiro down while he says it, ignoring his heart pounding all the way up in his throat. May as well put it all out on the table. It’s only fair that Shiro knows about all of this now--otherwise, he might not want to hire the mechanic who also wants to go on a date with him to see where this thing could go, not when it could end in some kind of disaster for Shiro financially. He’s putting a lot of trust in Keith’s skills as a mechanic.

But Shiro is full-on beaming at Keith over the news, his eyes crinkled at the corners from the force of his smile. He’s even more beautiful when he smiles.

“I am . . . looking forward to seeing what we can do together, Keith,” Shiro says. He sticks out his hand, reminiscent of when Keith walked up to him in the bar. “I’m really glad I met you, Keith.”

Keith takes his hand to shake it once but then he holds it tight, measuring the width of Shiro’s palm.

“Me too, Shiro.”

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/disloyalpunk)


End file.
